The Carousel
by CharacterDriven
Summary: Sequel 2 Castle in the Sand. A woman without a muse struggles to express herself through texting. Rated M for a lot of things including metaphors. I for innuendo. T for Titillating. This is probably way too long. Welcome constructive criticism. I own neither Castle, nor any of its characters, nor Little Bo Peep, nor rights to any board game, fictional or not.


_"No sun outlasts its sunset but will rise again and bring the dawn." R.I.P. Maya Angelou._

He figured she'd be asleep. Unless she'd been called out of bed for a body drop. So he just texted her, knowing she kept the alerts silenced:

"Caught the 9:35 red-eye." He was stretched out, face-down, on a first-class recliner bed that could actually be flattened all the way. It had some kind of memory foam mattress. Bliss. He fell asleep for awhile. He'd been dreaming about her, them, together on a beach... It became even more delightful when his phone buzzed in his front trouser pocket. He groaned softly in his sleep, then startled awake.

To his surprise and delight, she had texted him back, an hour into the flight: "You couldn't wait till sunrise?"

"Normally I can put off gratification."

"Who are you and what have you done with my partner?"

"Not nearly enough. He's wide awake."

"Poor man. How was the talk?"

"Not bad, but I still have sand in my pockets."

"You didn't change your pants?"

"I tried to change them into a flight of doves, but I guess I was just too grounded."

"Some kinds of magic are easier than others. Don't give up your day job."

"Has yours started yet?"

"Yeah :-( Pop & drop."

"Sorry. Those are boring."

"!"

"I am an insensitive oaf when sleep deprived."

"When did you last sleep?"

"March 2009."

"There you go."

"Occurs to me that we've been together longer than it took to get through high school."

"Been together?"

Oops. He typed: "The author squirmed and loosened his tie, sweating profusely. He croaked, 'Define been'."

She responded, "The detective stomped her stiletto on the vinyl interrogation room floor. She glared at the author. 'Define together.'"

"The author passed out cold. Consumed with remorse and suppressed longing, the prosecutor held his hand all the way back to his jail cell. He never knew, and she never admitted it."

"In your dreams. But such fun to see you suffer."

He sighed. "Issue safely skirted. Again."

She wrote back, "Speaking of skirts, what are you wearing?"

"Are you gonna sext me?"

"No. I do not sext. Anyone. Ever. Especially not you because I know you'd save it for..."

"Posterity?"

"You're very attached to your posterity, aren't you. Perhaps even proud of it."

"I grew it myself."

"I'm sure you grow lots of things."

"I've been accused of using GMOs to enhance my yield."

"That's cheating."

"I never cheat."

There was a text silence. He got worried. Yes, a text can babble. "Ok, sometimes I cheat a little. I used to rearrange all the cards in LandO'Candy so nobody had to go back to the Syrupy Swamp. Saved so many tears. Mostly my own."

Her next text was all business: "Sorry for the wait, got preliminaries. Looks like our shooter had multiple vics tonight around the city. The morgue's a zoo."

"First the beach, then Candyland, now the zoo. 'It's never too late to have a happy childhood.'"

"I doubt that. But I love Tom Robbins!"

"More than me?"

"Trick question, Writerboy." and then she added immediately, "No."

"No what? :-{ "

"I do not love Tom Robbins more than you. He never brings me coffee."

He smiled. At least that was something. "If Robbins brought you coffee?"

"I'm a 1-writer girl, remember?"

"I'll hold you to that."

"Hold me to...?"

"Anything you like." He checked an app. "We're over the Midwest now."

"Parachute down, I hear that grass-fed is the new corn-fed."

"You and your New York Elitist food snob ways."

"Mine? Like you're not spoiled rotten."

"Mom and I ate more than our share of ramen."

"Right."

"No kidding. Single mom? Actress? We even went on food stamps a few times."

"God. I didn't know that."

"We have our coping mechanisms. You can always find mac & cheese squirreled away in the top left cupboard. Mother 'hides' a bottle of champagne in back corner of the fridge. Just in case."

"In case?"

"In case something needs celebrating."

":-D I love your mom."

"She loves you, too, though she'll never tell you in so many words."

"You really think so?"

"How can she help it?"

Of course, he didn't see the tears in her eyes, but the cab driver heard her sniffle. She blew her nose.

"BTW, you do know that CA and NY are only 3 hours apart, not 4?"

"Yes, but they're four time zones away. Also it feels like forever, so add an hour."

Another long pause. He drifted into sleep again.

In New York, she was at an all night store near Times Square, the kind of place you could buy a burner phone at 4:43 a.m. But, she hoped, not get mugged on the way to meet the town car she'd ordered. She paused a moment, excited but anxious. She loved to read and she liked to write, but she was intimidated. Her last attempt at sexting him, while very endearing, had turned into a discussion about ramen noodles and his mother. This man... he pushed her to think, to stretch her imagination and her creativity, and he seemed always ready to play. But it was so much easier one one one, even if they didn't.. weren't... hadn't... Yet. Yet. This was just for fun. This would be all right. He'd likely be asleep anyway, no harm done, he'd dismiss the text from an unfamiliar phone as random. She got into the back of the black towncar and spoke to the driver. "Thanks for waiting. Let's go."

She activated the phone. A few moments later, her text buzzed softly in his hand.  
"Where are you?"

"Up." He was. In more ways than one. He then noticed that her phone avatar was different; a selfie with city lights behind her. "Is that Times Square? You changed phones. Why?"

She responded, "I'm her Evil Twin. Seriously? You think I want a convo like this on my personal phone? You can't exactly wash these things."

"Were you planning to get it dirty?"

"You should have more in your pants than sand."

"Why would I put your phone in my pants?"

"bzzzzzzzzz. BTW that didn't even make sense."

He rolled on his side, away from the aisle. It was awkward typing like that, but he was sure the steward/esses had seen more than enough obvious weirdness in overnight flights. He didn't want to embarrass anyone, particularly himself.

He texted, "How do I know it's really you?"

"Ask me a question only I would know the answer to."

"Card inscription, first present I ever sent you."

"Bibbity Bobbity Boo."

"You're in. Speaking of in, where are you?"

"Down."

"That could mean any number of things, from funny to tragic. Tell me about it."  
"I'm in the back of a town car, going from Point A to Point B."

"Didn't pick up your own car?"

"No time for detours. Someplace to be."  
"Define 'be'."

"It's a soft fuzzy striped insect that loves honey."

"Honey?"

"Sticky. Sweet. Product of sunlight."

"Product of flowers."  
"True. A bee might fly for a long time before she found just the right flower to land on."

"You know flowers have little UV landing stripes so that bees can find their nectar?"

"Are you spoiling my fantasy with your science trivia?"

"Your fantasy? No. Just fleshing it out."

"Go ahead, flesh it out as much as you like. Is anyone watching?"

Wow. "Passengers all asleep, snoring in chorus. A voluptuous blonde stewardess keeps passing me by. I think his name is Fred."

"Wave hello for me."

"I keep my friendly, midnight, sexting-induced gestures a little more discreet than that."

"Would this be a good time to change your pants?"

Wow again. "Is there ever not a good time to change my pants?" He rolled off the bed and reached into the overhead for his suitcase, found a clean-ish change of clothes and his toiletry bag. He went into the relatively spacious bathroom, locked the door, and said a silent prayer of thanks to the God Mercury, patron of first class air flight.

He texted her: "Got spare clothes & toiletry bag. Am now in in restroom. Actually men's room, now that I'm in it."

"You're sure? You should check the mirror."

"Definitely a man."

"Feeling cheeky, aren't we."

"More like..."

"Turn around. Yes. Cocky. Definitely you."

She thought of what it would be like, standing in that little room behind him, able to see his back, and everything in the mirror, at least everything from the top of his head to just above the counter edge. To see his hands. She imagined her own hands too, her arms crossing forward, wrapping around him. He was waiting on her to make the next move.

Her text buzzed the phone, and he jumped at the sensation. "Are you ready for a change?"

He replied, "So ready. Change is a good thing."

"Sometimes in the middle of change, things get really hard."

Ohhh, boy. "They do? Oh. So they do. Dark before the dawn, right?"

"They get really, REALLLLLY hard."

"That's a lot of Ls."

"Well, some things are so really that they have to be stretched out."

"Stretched out. By the way I'm not entirely sure that was a complete sentence."

"Shut up. Sometimes the situation has to be manipulated. You know what 'manipulated' means?"

"Manipulative: you like games."

"Playing chess. Picking up the pieces, oh so gently. Maybe twirling them a little. Feinting a move then doing something else. Moving them exactly where I want them. My opponent is often behind me, but catching up to me, over and over, an even match, a battle of minds and will, and then queen takes king."

"Where does she take him?"

"All the way. To checkout. But as you mentioned, some games can go on for a long time. I wanted to be Princess Candy-Stick. With the flouncy skirt and lace-up bodice, and pink striped stockings that disappeared under her whipped-cream white petticoat..."

"Bo-Peep did it better."

"So true. But she had a job to do, protecting her sheep from the Big Bad Wolf."

"Animal."

"I hear he goes insane when the moon is round and full. He runs out into the night, lured by heat and scent. She caresses his face with silver fingers."

"The moon or BoPeep?"

"Shut up. I hear he lets out a howl that makes her come when he calls. I hear she growls when his teeth nip into her throat, whimpers when he licks her. I hear she rubs his tummy till his leg wiggles and he wags his tail."

"How romantic. I don't know what my vet told you, but that's completely under control now."

"Completely under control?"

"Need 2 look it up. Need a sec. I was just guessing."

"Don't get sloppy, Writerboy. Switch apps. Change things up a little."

"Will you be here when I get back?"

"Yes."

About 45 seconds later she got his text: "Manipulate: handle or control (a tool, mechanism, etc.), typically in a skillful manner."

"And you are typically skillful?"

"Rave reviews. But in terms of applause... right now it's the sound of 1 hand clapping."

"Do you know what happens when I laugh?" She actually was laughing. The driver glanced back at her, distracted. She ignored him, reading the next text.

"When you REALLLLY laugh? Your head tilts back, your eyes sparkle, your mouth is wide, your body shakes all over. Spasming. Rhythmically."

"You noticed then."

"Also, Manipulate: control or influence (a person or situation) cleverly, unfairly, or unscrupulously."

"Well. That could be fun."

"You live for it."

"Oh, I live for a lot of things now."

"Like what?"

"The slow, sweet drag of honey butter as I slide my tongue down the blunt edge of a knife."

"Nothing as dangerous as a blunt instrument. More. What kind of moments do you live for."

She sent a rapid-fire series of texts, and he felt a soft, concentrated buzz with each one.  
(buzz) "So many moments to live for. Which should I choose? A glass of wine, snuggled up on the couch."  
He replied, "More."  
(buzz) "The opening of a door. The opening of just about anything. As long as it wants to."  
He replied, "More."  
(buzz) "Exploring on a dark night. Only a candle, dripping with warm wax, to light the way."  
"Yes."  
(buzz) "On a picnic, green grass and red blanket, under the smooth branches of a beech tree, a cool breeze caressing bare skin."  
"Yes."  
(buzz) "Sitting alone with a cat in my lap, petting her softly until she purrs rubs my hand and begs for more." "Uh, yes and no."  
(buzz) "At Coney Island, screaming my throat raw on the roller coaster then soothing it with something sweet, something wet, in the shade, under the pier."  
"Oh, yes."  
"I'm drawing a blank. I wish I had a muse to tell me what to write."  
"Those are some damn good moments. Just need one more."

"You've taken your time."

"Are you doing the same?"

"The back seat of this town car is very dark, and nobody except me would know."

"Would I know?"

"Viewer discretion advised."

She sent him a picture. Damn it, a blank screen.

"You left the flash off, you minx."

"Didn't want to startle the driver."

"Where are you going?"

"Anywhere I want. You need one more?"

"Yes. Pllllleeeeasssse."

She smiled. "I had an ill-advised and illicit midnight snack. One of those pink ShinyPops. Bought it at a bodega."

"The raspberry pops? They're almost as big as my, uh, wrist."

"And so tasty. Wrapped my lips around it, sucked on it, licked the drips as it melted over my hand."

"How fast did it melt?"

"Oh, it was almost ready to melt before I even put it..."

"WHERE" he'd forgotten the question mark.

"...in my mouth."

She waited for his text, the phone pressed tightly into her lap.

"BAM! Said the Lady..."

"What lady? Where are you now?"

"I guess that was somewhere over the Adirondacks, and a mile high."

"Hope you have alcohol wipes for your phone.I hear airline restrooms are a hotbed."

"I come prepared. BTW where are you exactly?"

She was running out of time, and she turned her body away, as much as she could, from the driver's possible view. Her finger, just one, found what she was looking for. With her other hand, she typed, "Almost there."

"Almost where? Wait, you mean, like... oh."

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"OH!

"That good, huh?"

"For some reason, I want pancakes."

"Me too. Gotta go. Landing soon."

They signed off. He washed up, swapped his grainy contacts out for glasses, and put his change of clothes on. Thought about shaving, but he wasn't going to be seeing her till noon, so he decided to wait for later. To show up looking professional. So she'd be proud of him. At this moment he didn't look like anything approaching New York's finest: plaid button-down, jeans, T-shirt, wire-rims, deck shoes. His hair suffered that unpleasant mix of static and oil that even traveling First Class didn't ameliorate. It all came down to a scruffy, slightly rumpled, tired-looking mess the likes of which constituted something of a disguise, because he rarely let anyone in New York see him like this. He should have gotten a quick haircut. Gone back to the hotel and flown out in the morning. But being away from home so long, away from everyone he loved – all right, away from her. It wore him down. Sometimes he got tired of trying so damn hard.

Her town car pulled into the JFK short-term lot for domestic flights. She spoke to the driver, checking her phone. "It just landed. I'll be back in about 20 minutes."

The driver nodded and smirked. "Take your time." She wondered if he'd noticed anything unusual in her backseat texting session. She glared at him brazenly, a look that had been known to make a hardened criminal pee in fear. The driver, who was a refugee from the Bosnian war, had seen scarier things. But he looked away.

Heading into the terminal, she pulled the burner phone out of her purse (she actually sometimes did carry one) smashed its card, and tossed it in the trash. She immediately regretted that. Oops. What if he was trying to reach her on that phone? What if he'd already grabbed a taxi, or hired a car? Her plan was suddenly looking sort of stupid.

But she'd done all right. The first passengers from his flight had not yet come to baggage claim. She knew her distance vision was better than his, and she was actually looking for him, so she had the advantage. But where was he? Anxiety rose in her, and then she realized she was thrown off, expecting the usual cool and dapper man she saw almost every day, whom she'd missed terribly on his most recent trip. She spotted him first, recognizing him by his height and his walk. She texted him: "Hey. Have you landed?" (Sometimes at airports, "arrived" doesn't mean "disembarked"). Just to keep him occupied before she sneaked up on him.

He stopped, stepped to the side, and replied to her text: "If you hear distant mooing, it's me. And my fellow passengers plodding down the causeway to our doom."

"I'd call it more of a steady whine."

"What happened to your other phone?"

"What other phone?"

":-P I think I'm gonna miss Other Phone. Evil Twin phone."

"Never happened."

"Would you ever want to play LandO'Candy with me?"  
"I'm more of a Scrabble girl, myself."

"Ok. If I get 'Manipulate', gonna play that for all it's worth."

They continued the conversation, her waiting, him pulling off to the side every few steps like the surprisingly courteous man he could be, so he could text her without obstructing the people passing him. Her heart melted. He looked like he'd been hit by a bus. A busload of cuteness, his beach/bed-head hair and skin touched by California sun. She wanted to touch them as well. He was now the last passenger down the causeway, even though as first class, he'd been one of the first to disembark.

"Have you disembarked?" She was disingenuous, looking right at him, about 300 feet away. He still didn't see her.

"Yup. I'm gonna grab a taxi home and catch a little sleep before I come in to work. Where r u now?"

"I'm at the carousel." She looked over at it. Baggage was starting to roll out on the conveyor loop. But he wasn't there yet. He was looking at her text. She saw his shoulders droop. He shook his head sadly and leaned against the wall, focusing on his response.

He ran a distressed hand through his hair. "Don't they ever give you a break?"

"I'm fine."

"Uh-oh."

"No, really. I got a little sleep. I feel quite refreshed, but you've been up all night."

"You might say that. Or your evil twin would."

"What evil twin? I have no idea what you mean."

"She texted me a bit. Quite a writer."

She beamed, typing fast. "I'm sure she'd be flattered to know you were impressed, if she even existed. That being said, here at the carousel, it's 6:18 am, and I'm calling you at sunrise. Try to picture it."

"Which carousel? Central Park or Coney Island?"

"Baggage Carousel B. Silly."

His head snapped up, and oh, the smile on his face! She could see the blue of his eyes from 200 feet away. But she was just one in a crowd, and he couldn't make her out yet. He started walking toward Carousel B, radiating energy, squinting around a little, looking for her. She realized suddenly that he was wearing glasses, and she loved them. He clicked, her phone rang. His voice was so excited. "I can't believe you showed up."

"I barely recognize you. You look like a tourist."

"You really _are_ here?!" He hadn't. He really hadn't believed it. "What are you wearing?"

"Nuh-uh. No more of that." She hung up on him, watched him grin and stick his phone back in his pocket.

He helped an elderly couple wrestle their bags off the conveyor loop, then chased down his own without stopping to be thanked. While he was occupied, she took a note pad out of her purse and scribbled with a Sharpie, then held the sign up, just as drivers use to pick up clients they don't know. He saw her waving it. She thrilled at his beautiful, deep, incredulous laugh.

He hurried to her, flooded with something oddly like relief, gratitude, joy that she'd go so much out of her way just to pick him up after a long night. "That's in case I don't recognize you?"

There wasn't a word written on the sign, just a quick drawing. And whether that was a sunrise or a sunset, he didn't care, because her face was shining with love.


End file.
